


Spatha

by TauriCXIV



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Episode Gladiolus DLC, Gen, Hurt with not much comfort, Loss of Limbs, aggressive avoidance of fight scenes, body image issues, hurt gladio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TauriCXIV/pseuds/TauriCXIV
Summary: Bad Things Happen Bingo: Passing Out from Pain"The fight is over. His breath is ragged, his face covered in blood. Pain. So much pain. The blood burns his eyes. He tries to raise his right hand to wipe it away, but his arm doesn’t budge."Gladio always knew who he was and what he was meant to be. Gilgamesh's trial leaves him questioning everything.





	Spatha

Maybe it’s divine justice, a punishment for his hubris, for thinking he can succeed where no one else has. Where even _The Immortal_ faltered. Maybe it's just bad fucking luck, something as simple as a mistimed block. In the end, it doesn’t make any difference.  
  
The Blademaster is brutal in his assault, he holds nothing back, just as he’d promised. Gladio had felt powerless against the High Commander, but Ravus didn’t hold a candle to Gilgamesh. The ancient swordsman wields the glaives of the fallen and cleaves through his defenses with ease. The slash to Gladio’s face and chest happen so suddenly he can’t remember when in the battle they occurred. Blood soaks into his clothes and runs down his face. He sees red and it burns. Half blind he doesn’t see the tilt of the Blademaster’s glaive until it is too late.  
  
The pain doesn’t register for some time. All he knows in the heat of battle is that his sword becomes heavy. His grip on it has slipped, only his left hand is holding strong. Gilgamesh stands near, watching instead of raising his blade for another strike. Gladio’s mind sees the opening and he takes it. With his sword in one hand, he slices through the Blademaster, who somehow looks surprised beneath his mask.  
  
Then Gladio is on his knees. The fight is over. His breath is ragged, his face covered in blood. _Pain_. So much pain. The blood burns his eyes. He tries to raise his right hand to wipe it away, but his arm doesn’t budge.  
  
Why would it when it’s lying three feet away from him?  
  
He falls forward and everything goes dark.

* * *

He wakes up lying on his back. He feels numb at first, but slowly the pain builds until it is _agony_. He cries out and then Cor’s face is over him. He says something Gladio doesn’t understand. Gladio’s gaze falls to his right side and finds bloodsoaked rags wrapped around the stump where his arm used to be.  
  
The only thought he has before slipping back into unconsciousness is how useless he is now.

* * *

The next time he wakes he’s at a haven somewhere outside of the Tempering Grounds. Cor must have carried him there, which would have been an amusing thought if Gladio were capable of having one right now.  
  
Gladio sits up, the jacket that had been pulled over him falls, and he knows he’s not dreaming. The pain is dull—he can’t imagine how many potions a severed limb requires.  
  
He stares at it, shock and fascination warring inside of him. Gladio has seen plenty of wounded soldiers—men and women who gave life and limb for Lucis. He’d viewed them with the utmost respect. He _knows_ there is no shame in this kind of injury… and yet.  
  
Despair settles over him like a miasma—choking his lungs as he inhales, sharp and shallow. Cor was right. He sacrificed everything for naught in return. What use was a shield that could not even lift one?  
  
“Stop that.” Cor’s voice jolts him. He hadn’t noticed the marshal sitting only a few feet away. Cor is watching him, deep lines of disappointment etched into his skin. “I’ll be damned if I watch you drown yourself in pity.”  
  
Gladio lets out a laugh. It sounds more like a sob. “Drowning sounds pretty good right about now.”  
  
Cor’s frown deepens. Gladio knows that look from when he was a kid after he’d done something stupid and _‘unbefitting of the honor of his station’_.  
  
“After all that,” Cor says, drawing Gladio back to the present, “you’d just lay down and die?”  
  
Gladio doesn’t answer. His gaze falls to his lap.  
  
“What happened to wanting to be stronger? To proving yourself worthy?”  
  
Gladio snarls, “You know _damn well_ what happened!” The bandages on his _stump_ itch. He wants to tear them off, to let the flesh break open and his blood spill onto the ground. It infuriates him. He doesn’t have his arm. His _arm!_ It’s fucking _gone_ and how the fuck is that fair? What the fuck did he do that was so wrong he’d had a piece of him taken away?  
  
Something is thrown at his face and he catches it reflexively (in one hand because his other one was fucking _cut off)_. It’s a sword. A katana. He’s about to snap at Cor for throwing a weapon he can’t even wield at him when he notices the medallion wrapped around the hilt.  
  
“Crownsguard?” he says, puzzled.  
  
“That’s the sword I wielded when I faced Gilgamesh,” says Cor. His face is still stern, and the intensity of his eyes keeps Gladio’s attention. “I barely made it out of the trial alive, and that sword was left behind. Gilgamesh kept it all these years until one man was able to best him.”  
  
Gladio scowls, unable to comprehend what the marshal is telling him. Cor inclines his head, “He gave that sword to you, Gladio. Proof that you passed his trial.  
  
“I have never lied to you, and I won’t start now. With only one arm, you can never be the shield you were, nor the shield you might have become. That path is lost to you. If you choose to bow out, there is no shame in that. You made a great sacrifice and you have served your king and country well. Not a single soul on this star could judge you unfavorably.”  
  
Cor pauses and stares into him—through him. “However, if you choose to continue the fight, to carry on in spite of all you have lost, I will stand by you and provide whatever aid I can.”  
  
Cor stands. “You are not dead, Gladiolus. Don’t act like you are. When you are ready, I’ll be here.”  
  
Cor doesn’t try to talk to him for after that. He cooks skewers over the fire while Gladio stews in his own emotions. The easiest one is anger. It’s familiar—comforting, even, to be angry at what’s happened. He’s angry at everything. At himself for being so damn headstrong, at Cor for not stopping him, at Gilgamesh for maiming him, at the sword in his lap. He’s even angry at his dad for dying and leaving him to struggle through this alone.  
  
Grief is harder for Gladio, and the tears that fall from his eyes are more humiliating than he’s willing to admit. Cor sets a plate next to him and doesn’t say a word.

* * *

Cor said he’d give him time, and he does by not bringing up his injury again. Instead, he talks about how far a walk it is to the nearest outpost. He laments they didn’t rent chocobos when they had a chance. Gladio isn’t much for conversation, but when he’s been silent for too long Cor will stare at him until he at least grumbles out a, “Yeah.” The knowledge that Gladio’s still listening at least is enough to satisfy him.  
  
All the while Gladio tries to imagine what his life will be like now. He thinks about all the things he can’t do. Years of techniques he’s perfected that won’t work. He knows, of course, that one arm doesn’t make him an invalid. He could still fight if he needed to. Hell, Gilgamesh only had one arm (for most of the fight) and was still a mighty warrior. Even Ravus had had his arm replaced with a magitek one.  
  
But Gladio isn’t an ancient undead swordsman who could manifest an arm out of pure magic, nor is he the High Commander of the Imperial Army who could have his limb replaced with a word. Maybe when Insomnia was still standing it would have been possible, but not now.  
  
A usable prosthetic is out of the question.  
  
They make it back to the outpost near dark. The neon Motel sign is just as comforting as the glow from a haven’s runes. Gladio almost relaxes until they step into the Crow’s Nest and the first person sets eyes on him. He sees their gaze flicker down to his right before jerking up and away. He’s used to people staring at him, even avoiding his gaze out of fear. This, though, this feels like disgust.

* * *

He needs a shower. He’s caked in blood and grime and a wet cloth at camp just doesn’t do the trick. He turns on the water and lets it heat up. From all the traveling they’ve done, Gladio’s learned that it takes forever for the water to run warm in motels like this.  
  
The challenge comes with getting his clothes off. It’s hard enough with one hand without that one hand being his non-dominant one (he’s never getting that brace back on, that’s for damn sure). When he’s finally got it off he forces himself to look at his reflection.  
  
His arm was severed at the bicep. The flesh there is pulled together in an angry knot. It’s very clearly the product of battlefield medicine, no ER surgeon would have left such a mess. Looking at it kicks the air out of his chest, but he doesn’t look away until the steam fogs up the mirror. In the shower, he watches the water spin around the drain and doesn’t touch his arm.  
  
He can’t fall asleep. He lays in bed, staring at the clock on the nightstand, watching the minutes roll up. His phone is next to it. One press of the button and he could call the guys—tell them where he’s been, where he’s at, what happened. He could hear Prompto’s shock, Ignis’ eloquent sympathies, and Noct’s soft despair. He can’t imagine doing anything more difficult at the moment.  
  
There’s an itch on his right palm that’s driving him crazy, especially considering he doesn’t have a right palm.  
  
He closes his eyes and doesn’t sleep.

* * *

“Come with me,” Cor says the next morning. Gladio’s eyes are bloodshot and bruised and he doesn’t know what to do other than obey. His feet move mechanically after the marshal. He takes him out back behind the motel. Cor turns on heel and tosses a long object at him. Gladio goes to catch it but reaches first with his missing hand. The thing hits him in the chest and falls to his feet. He growls and reaches down to pick it up. It’s a stick, about the length of a short sword.  
  
“What’s this,” he asks as if he doesn’t know.  
  
“Practice,” answers Cor, and brandishes his own stick. “Don’t act like you’re too good for it. Only a fool thinks they’ve learned all there is to know.”  
  
He’s heard that a thousand times, but Gladio hasn’t used a practice sword since he was fifteen. Cor really thinks he’s that weak? That he needs to be treated like a child? He simmers. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on this one.” He lets the stick fall back to the ground.  
  
Cor frowns but instead of scolding him, wacks him _hard_ in the ribs.  
  
Gladio wheezes and stumbles back. He’s definitely going to get a bruise from that. “The hell?”  
  
“You’re not leaving here until you can land a strike on me.”  
  
“I don’t need this shit right now.” He turns away to stalk off but his feet are swept out from under him and he lands face first on the ground.  
  
“The first rule of combat I ever taught you; Never turn your back on an opponent.”  
  
“Fine. Fucking, fine.” He grabs the stick he’d discarded and hauls himself back onto his feet. He advances on Cor, fire burning in his veins and clouding his vision. Cor wants him to fight, so he will.

* * *

Sparring with Cor was never easy, the marshal never once held back on him in the Crown City. Gladio takes in the lines across his torso when he strips for a shower. Good to know some things haven’t changed.  
  
“You have to make a choice, Gladiolus,” Cor says on the second day as he swipes at Gladio, striking where his guard is still wide open. “What path are you going to walk?”  
  
There’s never been a choice before. His path was set before he was born. Shield of the King, that was his destiny. Now his future is uncertain. Gladio is standing on a ledge and no one is telling him if he should step forward or back. He must decide for himself, and that freedom is paralyzing.

* * *

Prompto sends a text on the third day. There’s a picture of Noct’s back looking out over a lake, Ignis is off to the side scribbling away in his notebook. The text accompanying it reads, **Been here all day. Noct’s forgotten we exist! Help!**  
  
They look alright from what little he can see in the photo. Certainly in better shape than he is. It helps ease the guilt of his extended absence, knowing his charge and his friends are alright. There’s still a seed of doubt there, though, that they don’t need him. They’re doing fine without him hovering over them.  
  
Gladio starts typing, **Catch anything big for once?** Then deletes it. **Push him in the water, that’ll get his ass in gear.** As if he’s not guilty of being idle himself. He deletes that too. In the end, Gladio doesn’t send anything. Prompto wouldn’t know it, but there’s too much Gladio needs to say and small talk doesn’t feel right.  
  
An ellipsis pops up and Gladio cringes. Prompto obviously saw that he was typing before.  
  
**We’re heading back to Lestallum tomorrow. Hope you get back soon from whatever it is you’re doing. Noct’s getting spoiled with all that room in the back to himself**!

* * *

It’s been almost two weeks since Gladio’s excursion to the Tempering Grounds. Gladio’s gotten better at this single hand thing. He doesn’t reach for things with an arm that isn’t there anymore, or well, not as much, anyhow.  
  
Cor is still handing him his ass in spars, but he’s gotten better at that, too. He can anticipate when Cor goes for his weak points. Gladio sees the subtle shift in his stance, now. How he angles his sparring sword, and he moves to intercept. Gladio catches Cor’s stick and deflects it before he lands a blow. He can’t turn the move into a return strike, but it’s the best he’s managed, yet. Gladio can’t help the grin that forms on his face.  
  
Cor pauses and nods. “Good.” He tosses aside the stick and produces his sword. The steel glimmers dangerously in the sunlight. “Now we can move to the next level.”  
  
A pit forms in his stomach. Cor must be able to read his unease because he says, “Unless you intend to fight Imperials and daemons with a stick?”  
  
Gladio frowns but summons his greatsword. He hoists it up onto his shoulder like he always does. It feels strange, it’s always been heavy, but now feels like it has an added weight.  
  
Cor falls into fighting stance. Gladio braces himself.  
  
He’s slow and clumsy with the greatsword. When he can’t take anymore he plants the sword in the ground. “It’s useless. I’m never gonna be able to fight with this damn sword again.”  
  
“Possibly,” Cor the Optimist says without sympathy. “But it’s not the only weapon in your arsenal.”  
  
Gladio dismisses the greatsword and summons the katana Gilgamesh gave him as proof of passing his trial. The sword that had once belonged to Cor. Gladio doesn't know if he deserves such a glaive. He holds it out, testing the weight of it. He goes through a few motions, feeling the way his muscles move to counterbalance the length of the blade. It's… nice. Unfamiliar, but better than he thought.  
  
The Genji Blade should be unwieldy, but compared to his usual greatsword it’s agile and precise. Cor still kicks his ass, but Gladio feels like maybe with enough time he could learn to be effective with it.

* * *

Gladio reads through the latest texts from Prompto and one from Ignis. Prompto’s are a series of pictures of what they’ve been up to. One is of Noctis stretched out in the back of the Regalia, drool running down his chin. It makes Gladio chuckle. Another is a selfie of Prompto with an extra creepy Kenny Crow statue the caption says, **Wish you were here.**  
  
Ignis’ text is simple, **Please let us know how you are doing.**  
  
The guilt gets to him. He sends back, **Fine**.

* * *

They are sitting in the diner when Gladio can’t hold it in anymore.  
  
“You told me I had to make a choice. That I had to choose what path I wanted to walk. I could stay here and train with you forever. Maybe I’d get back to being as good as I was, maybe I’d even get better. Or maybe I’ll never be that good again. But the world isn’t gonna wait for that. The guys are still out there fighting, and I… I need to be with them. Even if I can’t be Noct’s shield anymore, I need to help them in whatever way I can.”  
  
Gladio takes a breath. “I’m leaving in the morning.”    
  
Cor takes a drink, sets the glass down, and says, “If that’s your choice, I wish you well, Gladiolus. Just so you know, I think your father would be proud. I know I am.” Cor places some gil on the counter, picks up his jacket, and walks out the door.

* * *

Gladio calls around until he knows where to go. It isn’t hard to find them. The Regalia is parked at the side of the road. She’s covered in mud and begging for a wash. Gladio places his hand on the hood as if to say, “Sorry I was gone so long.”  
  
It’s a short hike up to the lake. He hears them long before he sees them. Prompto’s excited chatter carries like nothing else. Later he’s going to give them all a lecture about how to not to act when an entire empire is after your head, but for now, he can’t help but grin.  
  
Gladio spots them on the dock, Noctis is recognizable even with his hat. The pole and huge fish are an instant give away. Prompto’s dancing around with his camera. Both he and Noct are soaked. Gladio can only assume the fish got its revenge as they were dragging it out of the water. Ignis is off to the side, dry and smiling.  
  
He makes it halfway to the dock when they notice him.  
  
“Gladio,” Ignis says in surprise.  
  
Prompto bounces up. “You’re back! Dude! We were seriously starting to think you were never gonna…”  
  
Tense silence falls over them as they take it all in. “Whoa,” Prompto says.  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio agrees with an uncomfortable laugh, he looks down at his stump. He hears Noct’s familiar footfalls as he approaches. Gladio swallows against the lump in his throat. He knew this was gonna be hard, but now, standing here with their eyes on him, part of him wishes he’d never come back.  
  
“Is that why you’ve been ignoring us?” asks Noctis. Gladio looks up. Noctis’ eyes are hard, his face is stone. He looks like a king and Gladio feels incredibly small.  
  
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he argues.  
  
“You didn’t answer any of our texts. You didn’t call. If I hadn’t called Cor I wouldn’t even know you were alive.”  
  
Gladio’s mouth goes dry. He didn’t know Cor talked to them. It made sense though, and he feels stupid for not realizing it sooner. He wonders what all Cor told them. Nothing about his injury, obviously.  
  
“I needed some time.”  
  
“You needed a month?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Noctis frowns, then looks away. “We were worried.”  
  
“Sorry about that.”  
  
“Uh. What… happened?” Prompto asks. His eyes keep flicking down to Gladio’s side, but he’s obviously trying not to stare.  
  
“There will be plenty of time for that later, I’m sure,” Ignis says.  
  
All eyes turn to Noctis. It’s his call, whether Gladio gets to stick around long enough to explain. He could order him away, to go be with Iris in Cape Caem. Or maybe to Lestallum or even Hammerhead. Somewhere he won't get in the way. Somewhere he won't be a burden instead of an asset.  
  
“C’mon,” Noctis says and nods his head up towards the smoke rising from a nearby haven. “We’ve got camp all set up. We can eat while you talk. I’m guessing this is gonna be a hell of a story.”  
  
“You’ll be on the edge of your seat,” says Gladio with a grin. The corner of Noctis’ mouth twitches.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to NovaCarmen for the title


End file.
